


AUgust 2020

by Crownonymous



Series: AU_gust_2020 [1]
Category: Camp Camp (Web Series), Critical Role (Web Series), Persona 5, Sanders Sides (Web Series), Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: AU_gust_2020, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Akira, Demon Deals, F/M, Fae & Fairies, M/M, Magic, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25936495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crownonymous/pseuds/Crownonymous
Summary: Day 1: Fantasy - Sanders Sides (Loceit)Day 2: College AU - Critical Role (Minor Perc'ahlia)Day 3: Soulmate AU - Six of Crows (Wesper)Day 4: Angels & Demons - Persona 5 (Gen, can be interpreted as ShuAke)Day 5: Post-Apocalypse (Camp Camp)
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Deceit | Janus Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Jesper Fahey/Wylan Van Eck, Percival "Percy" Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III/Vex'ahlia, but the ShuAke is up to your interpretation
Series: AU_gust_2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882357
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	1. Day 1: Fantasy AU

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts given by: [augustwritingchallenge2020](https://augustwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/621653119656493056/the-list-of-prompts-was-completed-one-prompt-per)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The forest at the Kingdom’s edge was once so full of life. The forest at the Kingdom’s edge held secrets deep within. If you listen closely to the forest at the Kingdom’s edge, you might hear a desperate plea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Read it on Tumblr: [HERE](https://hufflepuff-deceit.tumblr.com/post/626622829547454465/august-2020-fantasy-au)  
>   
> Fanfic in poetry form with ABCCBA rhyme scheme  
>   
>  **CW for** : Mentioned abduction, minor villain character death, bittersweet-ish ending

The forest at the Kingdom’s edge was once so full of life

A peasant woman passing by stopped to recall her years

The trees were full of flowers, the leaves and emerald green

And animals of all kind follow the fairest folk she’d ever seen

But now the trees have withered, the beasts wracked with tears

As the fair folk once merciful brought naught but cruel strife

At once the woman stopped her reverie and sadly shook her head

Those days were long behind her, and she steeled herself to go

Yet she froze her tracks, seeing a child huddled ‘neath a tree

He stretched his hands towards her, and beckoned her, “Come to me”

Before she could take a step, a voice commanded her, “No”

Astride his steed came a man dressed in princely garb who said:

“Go not young maid, be assured this is no child in need

This is one of the fair folk with a cruel, vicious plot

He has tricked many a lady to meet their sure demise

Pray that you do not fall for his dastardly lies

Stay far away from the forest’s edge or you too, will be caught

And to you, foul creature, I refuse to be deceived”

The child’s eyes narrows to slits, then he was a child no more

There stood a man with a scaled face who said with an angry hiss:

“For every moment that he is not returned to my arms,

To your citizens I will bring naught but harm

Know thus foolish prince, I will never cease, I promise you this.”

Though his voice was angry and furious, it was also filled with sorrow

The scaled beast snarled once more, then vanished in the shade

No matter how hard the woman looked, she could not see his scaly hide

The princely man shook his head, and offered her his hand

“Come, fair maid, let’s not linger longer on this land

That creature won’t see reason, he thinks our people have lied

Accused us of thievery and begun this needless crusade.”

The woman took his hand, and sat upon his noble white steed

They rode back into town, the wind blowing the prince’s red cape

“What does he think we did?” she finally asked

“Kidnapped a fae.” With widened eyes, the woman gasped

She listened to the prince’s tale with mouth agape

“The beast wants us to return this fae, wants it to be freed.”

.

“The beast once had a lover lovelier than the light of the stars

A fae with eyes bluer than the depths of the darkest seas,

Iridescent wings with feathers like a distant swirling galaxy

Though the snake-like beast brought nothing but calamity,

It’s said his lover was but a gentle soul who lacked the beast’s cruelties

With a heart and soul unburdened by cynical scars

And though the snake-scaled beast was now a creature most foul

It is said that he loved this blue-eyed fae more than anything

And it is said that this blue-eyed fae returned not the beast’s affection

And that the snake-eyed beast could not cope with this rejection

So when the blue-eyed fae took wing,

The snake-eyed beast began to prowl

He hunted and scoured and turned over every stone

He had his fae brethren join the search for his lost lover

And together they tried to find something which did not want to be found

A fae with wings that can take him off the ground

Til at last, the blue-eyed fae’s hiding spot they did uncover

It was a difficult search, but they found the tower in which the fae had flown

But though he had found his love, the beast dared not come close

Though he expected to see joy, the beast found something else instead

Upon seeing the look on his lover’s face, the mind of that beast snapped

And feebly, his broken mind tried to adapt:

Thoughts of an abduction filled the snake-eyed creature’s head

And he begun to create the most vicious ghost

He created a human woman in the depths of his mind,

A heartrending story he did weave

He called her “Dragon Witch” and said she took his fae

Stole him in the dead of night and led him astray

To a tower he could not approach, one his love could not leave

A fate of remaining forever in hiding he was resigned

That is the sin the beast thinks we have done

And though we have tried for years and years, he won’t listen to reason”

.

The forest at the Kingdom’s edge held secrets deep within

Once peaceful and jovial, the fairy city was now dark and grim

Fairy mothers held their children close, and told the most frightful tales

Of a beast once beautiful, now wrought with yellow scales

Who attacked both fae and man on naught but a whim

A monster called Deceit, a creature of anger and sin

“There was a time when Deceit had been kind,” the mothers say

“Before he was filled with hatred, before his heart was taken

A woman called the Dragon Witch stole what he held most dear

Abducted one of our own with a mocking, vicious leer

She thrust Deceit into a nightmare from which he will never awaken

For the wicked woman called the Dragon Witch took his Logan away

It’s said that Logan had been captive for thirty years, maybe more

Imprisoned in a magic tower that the fair folk could not encroach

Held somewhere high above, without the touch of a single tree

And though he knew where his love lay, Deceit can’t set him free

For the Dragon Witch made it so only humans may approach

The lonely marble tower, sitting on a sandy bone-white shore

Logan was brilliant, but foolish, harbouring a damning thirst for knowledge

He found a woman at the forest’s edge with a smile on her face

She promised him what he wanted. And against better judgement,

He followed her out of the fae lands and vanished in an instant

Deceit looked high and low to catch scent of Logan’s trace

When he found that his love could not be released, he began his carnage”

And while the fair folk and the human Kingdom had different tales to tell,

This is the one part of the story that they both shared

“The monster called Deceit threw both name and reason away

He turned the once beautiful land into one of death and decay

Peace can never be found for as long as he despaired.”

This terrible truth, both sides knew frightfully well

The so-called Dragon Witch, a cunning woman of great renown

A maiden gifted with magic stronger than any ever seen

Blessed with beauty, her skin flawless and smooth and fair

Men and women alike, beguiled by the silk of her long auburn hair

Though having no station, held the poise and grace of a queen

But the wicked woman called the Dragon Witch disappeared from town

The woman had simply gone without a hint of blood or breath

Deceit demanded the woman’s life, demanded for her to repent

Both fae and man searched for years for the catalyst of this war

Soldiers and hunters and hounds roamed both near and far

Yet despite their best efforts, not one soul knew where she went

For the Dragon Witch is no longer of this world, and lies still in death

The fae were right in saying that Logan had been taken against his will

The men were right in saying that the snake-eyed beast had been lost to frenzy

Deceit was right in saying the tower was a place where he could not tread

For the one person capable of breaking the tower’s spell was already dead

Though Logan had no wish to harm anyone, that had changed in his captivity

Torn from his home, chained and imprisoned, gentle Logan was driven to kill

It was neither by sword nor by spell that the Dragon Witch was slain

None but her angry, mournful, killer knew of her gruesome fate

For while it is true that her distant, faraway tower locked up any sound,

It also meant that her fragile, broken body would never be found

Logan’s once serene heart was poisoned with hate

Even with all her magics, the fae proved too difficult for her to contain

She had thought him weak when she first lured him out of a nearby glen

Guileless and trusting, he was fooled by the Witch’s guise:

That of a fair maiden, who needed help finding her way

Truely, the Witch thought, that Logan would be easy, hapless prey

All she did was pretend to have been attacked, and he listened to her cries

He came close enough for her to use a spell and then

She whisked him away! To a cliffside overlooking a salty blue sea

Dragged him to the very top of her beautiful marble tower

With but a snap of her finger, ‘round Logan’s neck she conjured an iron chain

“As long as you cooperate,” she said, “I promise you will feel no pain.”

There were desks and books and shelves of research in the woman’s bower

“If you help me in my quest, I might even set you free.”

Lavish though it may be, the Witch’s tower was but a gilded cage

And though she smiled as she said so, there was hunger in the Witch’s eyes

And there was awe in her face as she callously plucked one of Logan’s feathers

And he knew that once she was satisfied with him, she would take others

Unwilling to let his brethren find the same fate, Logan begun to plan her demise

Spurred on by the feeling in his chest of slowly bubbling rage

It took many months of feigning his willing compliance,

Until one rainy day, the Witch’s careful guard finally lowered

Logan, in chains, and the Witch in front of him, turned her back

And though he still could not break free of iron, she was close enough to attack

Before she could rectify her mistake, Logan lunged forward

Though he was weakened now, Logan found a way to seize this chance

He took the iron chains that kept him bound, that burned him so

Bearing the pain he wrapped the iron tightly ‘round her neck ever frail

He brought her to the lone window in the room, and spared her not a look

As he took the chain wrapped like vise ‘round her neck and hung it on the shutter hook

For hours he watched her scream, then beg, then plead, then wail

And when she grew silent, he threw her out the tower and watched her fall below

And so the world knew not the horrifying end that befell her,

Nor did they know that Logan’s tale is one that ends in tragedy

His first and last attempt to escape the Witch’s tower

Met misfortune as they both underestimated the other’s power

For while Logan managed to end her life with terrifying brutality,

A curse just before her death, the Witch managed to whisper:

“No fae may ever set foot onto this land

No fae may ever break free this spell

No fae may ever cross the tower door

Only man may approach the tower for evermore

Only man may set that cursed fae from his hell

Only man may break the iron by command”

Deceit would find that tower years later, drawn by a familiar voice

And though he found his love, he could not rejoice

The light of Logan’s eyes had grown grey and dull

He refused to answer any of Deceit’s frantic calls

His feathers were plucked, his wings gone

His once brilliant demeanor now cold and withdrawn

And thus concludes Logan’s sorrowful and tragic tale

It is said that Deceit still tries to free him, but to no avail

If you listen closely to the forest at the kingdom’s edge, you might hear a desperate plea

That of a scaled snake-eyed creature, begging for his lover to be set free


	2. Day 2: College AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the III gets peer-pressured into going to a party and meets someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompts given by: [augustwritingchallenge2020](https://augustwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/621653119656493056/the-list-of-prompts-was-completed-one-prompt-per)  
>   
> Read it on Tumblr: [HERE](https://landofsaltandshade.tumblr.com/post/626623792866820096/august-2020-college-au)  
>   
> Literally my first time writing Critical Role fanfic and I do it on a month-long challenge a few days behind. Entirely on brand for me. Might make a continuation to this at some point

Let it be known that Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the III was three more unnecessarily complicated essays away from trudging downstairs into the campus basement where a supposed “demon” dwells to bargain his soul away for but a day of having a clear head for once. The migraine seemed to be permanent. A persistent, obdurate nuisance that’s making his head spin and his eyes see two laptops with furiously typed half-finished assignments on the screen. Well, it was either the cause of the migraine, or it meant that Percy needed to get new glasses.

Or, according to his roommate, one Scanlan Shorthalt, all Percy needed was, “A day off.”

Rooming with Scanlan meant that Percy had experienced more than his fair share of having to skulk to the library, cafeteria, or, God forbid, being forced to wait outside their dorm room whenever Scanlan deigned to bring back a “friend.” More often than not, he had to spend more time turning down Scanlan’s many offers to “unwind” than on actually working on his assignments. Whether it be countless invitations to various parties Percy had no intention of attending, or simply skipping class and laying about with nary a care in the world, roll a couple blunts and allow the feeling to sweep him away. Let the thoughts drift. Stop existing for just a moment.

And though Percy had always turned Scanlan down without so much as a beat of hesitation, perhaps this once time was a rare moment of Scanlan being right for once. Perhaps Percy  _ was _ working himself to death and maybe it was time for him to stop burning the midnight oil on an essay he was sure his professors merely gave a cursory glance at.

Scanlan swung an arm around the bedpost of his bed, sheets unmade with some of it pooling on the floor. He held a nonchalant pose even as he gave Percy a rather convincing look. “Come on. You’ve been working like a madman for hours! All work and no play makes Percy very grumpy and I, for one, don’t want to see bitchy Percy ever again.”

With another mournful look at his laptop screen, at the paragraphs dancing in his vision, Percy sighed and removed his glasses to rub the headache from his temples. “I have been rather tetchy, haven’t I?” Scanlan made various noises with meanings that might have ranged from “Yes,” to “Fucking duh,” but Percy chose to give him the benefit of doubt. With a sigh of defeat, Percy saved what little work he managed to finish and shut his laptop.

As soon as the screen made a soft ‘click,’ Scanlan let out a loud yell and pumped his fist up in the air in victory. “Finally! I was kind of thinking that you were some kind of robot.” It was the loudest thing Percy had ever had the misfortune of hearing, and he was quite sure that his migraine worsened even more at the sound of Scanlan’s voice. “Okay. I have the perfect idea for you to roll y0our shoulders a bit. Relieve all the tension penetrating your body.”

“Wording, Scanlan.”

Scanlan ignored him. “Just relax and allow yourself to experience everything that college has to offer. A couple of smokes, women, men, bad song choices and spiked drinks.”

“You’re inviting me to a party aren’t yo-”

“I’m inviting you to the best damn party you will ever be invited to,” Scanlan assured. There was fire in his eyes. Granted, Scanlan grew spirited whenever trying to cajole Percy into a party but there was sincerity behind his enthusiasm. “I know you rich kids get invited to all sorts of shit with three-piece suits and butlers with silver trays following after like lost puppies but Percy. Percival. Perc. There aren’t any fountains that shit gold or anything, but come on. If there’s ever a single party that you go to in your college career, let it be this one.”

“I really don’t think-”

“There probably won’t even be that much alcohol and drugs in it. It’ll be rated PG-mostly-13 as far as college parties go.” Scanlan had moved on from his bedside perch and had instead elected to encroach upon Percy’s space, giving his best attempt at puppy dog eyes. “There won’t even be horny assholes humping each other on the couch this time! Hopefully. Probably.”

“Scanlan.”

“Cassandra might be there, I don’t know, but Pike will definitely be there, and I’m the one planning all this for my friends and I’d really like for you to meet them so pretty please Percival Frankenstein Van Helsing Cleopatra de Rolo the Fourth will you  _ please _ attend just one party to break from your perfect honour roll student life? It’s a birthday party if that helps so it won’t be as wild and crazy as the others. There will even be masks and shit because my other friends are dramatic little shits and I love them to bits and I really want you to meet them all and you don’t even have to suffer the mortal ordeal of being known so please? Please?”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, you win, Scanlan.” Another whoop and a cheer, somehow louder this time, if it was even possible, coupled with a hug that Percy only very slightly recoiled from. “I will attend, with a mask, but do not expect me to stay long.”

“Trust me my friend,” said Scanlan, pulling away with the brightest and widest grin Percy had ever seen from him, “after meeting them, you’ll  _ want _ to stay.”

Percy doubted it. It had been years now since meeting the Briarwoods, but strangers still made him wary. He couldn’t bear to crush the hope in Scanlan’s eyes though, and resigned himself to an unpleasant night with people he had no intention of talking to ever again once the party was over. Well, once he left. It was going to be one of those attendances where Percy stayed just long enough to be polite. As soon as he could, he planned on booking it right back to his and Scanlan’s dorm room.

If he was already in the room, then maybe, Scanlan would have the decency to bring a potential ‘friend’ somewhere else. (The couches in the common space in the dorm were terribly uncomfortable.) Percy glanced at the clock in the room. Then to his closet, the racks and racks of somewhat formal clothing from a habit he never managed to kick. To the box he knew he kept hidden on the floor, further camouflaged by articles of clothing that don’t fit anymore. Perhaps it would be odd to bring a leather crow-like mask with goggles for eyes to a party, but then again, there was no way in heaven, hell, or any other planes that could possibly exist, that Percy would ever purchase a mask for an event he didn’t even want to attend.

Besides, store-bought masks might fall and slip. His mask won’t.

“I’m going to make some last minute prep for the party. Hang on.” Scanlan hurriedly scribbled an address down in his notebook, tore the scrap of paper off, and handed it to Percy. “Right here. A walk from campus. Starts at seven, don’t be late, see you!”

Before Percy could say anything, Scanlan was out the door, mission seemingly accomplished. He probably only returned to the dorm just so he can invite/cajole/bully Percy into attending his friend’s birthday party. Scanlan even neglected to mention the names of the friends he so wanted Percy to meet.

With a few more hours ‘til Percy has to pretend to socialise at this party, he got up out of his chair, dug out the box from the depths of his closet, and rooted out his mask. For a moment, he did nothing but stare at it.

Foreign and familiar at the same time. A distant echo of the past with a voice that only grew louder and louder the longer he held his mask. It had been years since he had last looked at it, let alone felt the tough material with his own fingers. The glass of the goggles had cracked in places, and the straps would surely no longer fit his head. But he had time, and upon closer inspection at the box itself, it seemed that Percy had subconsciously packed his leatherworking tools, along with more than enough stray pieces of metal, glass, and leather to fashion this mask into something more appropriate for a party.

The migraine still has not gone away, and with every second that passes, Percy gets closer to formulating that plan to sell his soul just to get the pulsing to stop, and he really should get some rest, but leatherworking isn’t work to him. It was relaxing. Freeing. Certainly more than any party would ever do for him. And with Scanlan gone, Percy had the chance to do some work in peace. He cleared his desk, gathered his tools and set to work.

.

“Percy?” The mask Scanlan chose covered only the lower half of his face. A smooth porcelain-like cover. With night cresting around the corner, and the cheap street lamps offering little to no illumination, (because public funding was… not particularly the best in this area) Percy couldn’t quite tell what Scanlan’s mask was made of. It fit him though. Even in the dim light, there were purple swirls that curled near the edges.

Scanlan nudged him. “Hello? Earth to Percy. Please be Percy. It would be so awkward if I was talking to not Percy.”

“Yes, Scanlan. Hello.” Percy adjusted his mask once more. It was strapped securely on his face, with buckles that would prevent any college party-goer that had one too many drinks from tugging the mask down his face.

Scanlan reached up to tap the shiny metal bits Percy managed to attach to the mask and make it look less plain. The nail of Scanlan’s finger made a soft sound as it met metal. “Huh.” Scanlan nodded and crossed his arms. “Look at you Mr. Overachiever. I thought you were just going to bring a plastic mask and be done with it.”

Percy reached up to push his glasses up his nose, only to hit the metal-plated beak of his mask. Right. The goggles were fixed, mostly, but his prescription had been altered slightly now. Scanlan looked a little blurry. “Did you honestly expect me to half-ass dramatics?” Still, with the mask on, no one could tell that Percy would be squinting for the entire night.

“Should have expected as much from the guy with fifty-thousand names.” Scanlan beckoned him over, towards a building flashing with lights and brimming with people. Pink and purple streamers hung down from the front doors, with some gold accents for flavour. “I’ll introduce you to my friends. Oh, and congratulate Vex and Vax happy birthday yeah?”

He had no idea who those were, but Percy assented. He had to shout the closer they got to the building. The music was tasteful, for a party, but it was unbearably loud. The migraine, which had subsided somewhat in the hours of silence Percy spent working on the mask, had begun to surface again. Still, he gave his word, and a de Rolo never breaks his word.

Scanlan, bless him, tried his best ot be heard over the music. Percy even tried to lean down to hear him better. All he caught was, “... nice mask… saw Cassandra…” and then, much clearer than anything else, “PIKE’S HERE!”

Now, Scanlan was a friend, possibly Percy’s only friend in the odd two years he’s been a student in Emon. None but Scanlan had the moxy and resolve to continuously track Percy down and whittle his walls little by little to form a fierce friendship with him. Percy would fight dragons for Scanlan if need be. But, he thinks with great respect mixed with even greater resignation and a little bit of frustration and regret; Scanlan packs up all logic and inhibitions and manners into a suitcase whenever he saw Pike, and then defenestrated that suitcase as he bolted for her.

Indeed, with the occasional flash of bright light in the building, Percy saw Scanlan’s form rushing over to the side of a pretty woman with pale hair and a plain light blue mask. He could see the laughter in Scanlan’s shoulders from so far away as he and the woman, Pike, talked about things too far from Percy’s earshot.

Now he was simply alone, in a crowded room full of masked strangers with pulsing lights and too-loud music and Percy quickly took off into a corner, doing mental arithmetic with every step to count down the minutes he’d have to spend in this party he never really wanted to go to.

Mercifully, he found a punch table, several bowls lined up with various liquids. He can’t really drink anything in this mask, but he might as well look like he’s mingling with the crowd and whatnot. Percy grabbed a red plastic cup, chucked most of its contents into a potted plant, and leaned his back against a wall, looking out into the sea of people undulating their bodies with the rhythm of the music, and did his best to look like he wanted to be here.

Save the migraine and the lingering whispers in the back of his head about assignments due, the change of pace was refreshing. Annoying, but refreshing. And lacked the social obligations Percy feared he’d have to fulfill when he first came here. People saw him leaning against the wall and assumed that he was merely taking a break from the festivities or awaiting someone. It was peaceful, in a way.

That is, until a woman with an elegant blue mask marched to the punch table, grabbed two cups, downed both, and grabbed a third and joined Percy, leaning on the wall herself, body slightly angled to face him. Percy angled himself as well to face her, to be polite. The mask covered the upper half of her face, with feathers sticking out and up from one side. It matched her silvery blue dress quite well.

“Do you have a sibling?” she asked without preamble, staring into her cup.

Percy instinctively glanced about the room, trying to look for the matching shock of white hair of his sister, whom Scanlan stated  _ might _ be here. “Yes, a sister,” he answered idly, if a bit sullenly as he found that she was not in attendance. “Though I’m afraid she didn’t join us this evening. A shame too, she would have made for better conversation.”

“Well, at least you don’t have to watch your sister abandon a conversation with you to trip over words with her crush,” said she. She downed her drink in one go. “Honestly, it’s not even the ‘being ignored mid-conversation’ bit that’s bothering me. It’s the pining! It’s the tripping over his own two feet! My brother is a rogue of a man who stole dad’s credit card so he can throw a couple parties and buy some new shit so I don’t have to spend a cent but have him stand in front of Keyleth and he suddenly forgets every language he’s ever known!”

Percy had no idea who this woman was talking about, but a childhood of etiquette lessons compelled him to nod. He wondered what it would feel like, to have Cassandra be so taken with someone in the romantic sense. Just thinking about it felt odd. “Well, I’ve never had the fortune -or misfortune, apparently- to know that feeling, but I can somewhat relate.” The woman gave him a look that clearly meant that she’d lap up any distraction at the moment. Percy would take a distraction just about this time, too. It would certainly make time pass quicker until he could say that he’s attended and make a beeline back to the dorms. “I was peer-pressured into attending this party by a friend, and then I had to watch that friend leave me to fend for myself so he could unsuccessfully flirt with a woman he likes. And then I’d have to listen to him pine all day when he stumbles back into our dorm room with the scent of so much alcohol on his shirt he could be safely classified as a fire hazard.”

The woman snorted and raised her empty cup in the air. “If I had anything in this cup right now, I’d toast to our shit luck.”

Percy raised his cup as well. “I also have nothing in my cup, as drinking with this mask on is terribly inconvenient, but I can toast to that.”

They tapped their cups together, the woman squinting at Percy, finally, finally getting a good look at him. “Did- did you make your mask?”

“I did.” Again, he tried to adjust his glasses, and again, he hit nothing but the beak of his mask. “Well, I made it quite a few years back, but it seems that attempting to get through Professor Groon’s dreadful history essay requirements had… sparked some of my lost creativity. Fixed a couple of things here and there, re-adjusted the straps-”

“Oh God!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t finished the essay yet.”

Neither had Percy. Seeing as he was in the middle of a party, he’d resigned himself to having to rush it in the morning. Again. “I have to admit, I’m more concerned about Professor Groon’s reaction to me not submitting the assignment than I am with taking the hit to my grades.”

She laughed again. Clearly, whatever that punch is had a kick to it that was only just now starting to take effect. “He is an intimidating man, isn’t he?”

Percy hummed in agreement. Professor Groon made a mountain seem small in comparison. “Dear God, yes. And he never seems to blink.”

“Never!” the woman laughed in agreement. “It is such a relief to hear someone else notice that too. I thought I was going mad, uh…?”

_ Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the III _ . “Please call me Percy.”

“Wonderful to meet you dear. My name is Vex’ahlia.” She smiled at him from under her mask, face just a little bit red from the punch. The pulsing lights made the braid draped over her shoulder seem to shine. Her hand stretched delicately out towards him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Percy.”

Percy took her hand in his and returned her smile.

He had no idea what possessed him to do so. Perhaps it was her disarming smile that seemed to knock his legs out from under him, or perhaps it was the way her eyes seemed to glow as they locked onto his, maybe it was even the migraine, throwing all common sense onto the ground. But rather than shake her hand, as he would have done in any other circumstance, Percy bent down just a tad and kissed the back of her hand.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Perhaps he can stand to linger here a few hours more.


	3. Day 3: Soulmate AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tried. By the love of Ghezen he tried. Tried harder than he ever tried at anything before to read the meaningless lines of black ink on his arm. And, just as they always did, the words registered as nothing but gibberish. He couldn't read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this a long time ago, but I'm only posting it here now  
>   
> Prompts given by: [augustwritingchallenge2020](https://augustwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/621653119656493056/the-list-of-prompts-was-completed-one-prompt-per)  
>   
> Read it on Tumblr: [HERE](https://landofsaltandshade.tumblr.com/post/633098754623488000/august-2020-soulmate-au)  
> 

He tried. By the love of Ghezen he tried. After every sunrise streaming in through his curtains, Wylan pushed the sleeves of his nightgown up and tried and tried and tried to read the name of his soulmate, scrawled in fiery penmanship with loops and curls and tails for flair. Twisted his arm this way and that, tried looking in front of a mirror, tried harder than he ever tried at anything before to read the meaningless lines of black ink on his arm.

And, just as they always did, the words registered as nothing but gibberish. A spasm of ink to paper, ink to skin, that meant to Wylan about as much as a splattering of tea on the carpet. It made no sense. He couldn’t read it. The name of the person fate herself had thought would be perfect for him.

Mom was dead when his soulmark came in. Having Alys read it for him felt  _ wrong _ in a way that he couldn’t explain; like having an outsider intrude on a private, special moment. Asking Father was just absurd.

But, Wylan thought, perhaps he and his soulmate would still meet. Perhaps his soulmate would be enrolling at Belendt too. Perhaps they would meet each other in class, or perhaps they would meet sooner, on the boat that would take Wylan to his new school. Perhaps they would bump into each other on accident, Wylan would introduce himself, and maybe his soulmate’s eyes would light up with recognition.

As the air was stolen from his lungs, as Wylan was thrown overboard and plunged into the cold, dark, unforgiving waters, the blank papers Jan Van Eck had given him were soaked and muddied and wrinkled. The ink on Wylan’s forearm melted away and vanished from his mind as he fought to bring air to his lungs, to cough out the stinging Ketterdam river from his throat that held tight like a venomous serpent.

Wylan Van Eck was murdered that night, drowned and strangled at the bottom of the river with only the indifferent gaze of the moon as witness. Wylan Hendrik crawled and fought and clawed his way back to harbour, shivering and wide-eyed. His clothes clung to him, skin-tight and sheer. The wind bit and scratched and Wylan dragged himself down the streets of the barrel, the name on his arm taunting him as much as the blank sheafs of paper he left behind and let drift down with the current.

The ink on his arm won’t drift away. When Wylan opened his eyes every morning to piercing sunlight streaming through dingy holes and half-patched walls of abandoned buildings in the Barrel, he refused to even acknowledge the dark scrawl on his arm. A memory of a past life, of past dreams. He wore long-sleeves with dark colours. If he ever was thrown into water again, he won’t even see the ink through his soaked clothes.

He was drowning still. Drowning on dry land working in a tannery with the scent of chemicals permeating the air so thickly it made his eyes water. Stick-thin, barely making enough to scrape by, numbers and equations and designs tucked away in his bag, sleeves up to his wrist even as sweat poured down his face.

Then he met Jesper. He met Kaz. He met the Dregs. And for the first time in what felt like years of being pulled by the undertow, Wylan was grabbed by the hand and hauled out from sea, reborn into something more and someone new.

The fact that Jesper had given him an odd look when he pulled Wylan ‘Hendriks’ out of the water was lost.

The chemical smell of the tannery was replaced by the cling of gunpowder on Wylan’s sleeves, an acrid burn that he can’t quite get to go away. The pages of his notebook filled up with bombs and measurements and notes; Wylan’s version of notes, tiny scrawled images that meant about as much to others as words meant to Wylan.

Kaz “Dirtyhands” Brekker was as ruthless as he was terrifying. There were moments when they passed by each other in the slat when Wylan could swear to the Saints, to Ghezen, to whatever god or entity that might be looking down on them, that Kaz looked not  _ at _ Wylan, but into him. Peering into his very soul, into the secrets Wylan tried to hide and the burn of ink he tried to run away from. Kaz said nothing. So Wylan kept his mouth shut too.

_ Must have imagined it _ , he thought. Kaz was frightful, and with Inej as his wraith, Wylan had no doubt that he could find dirt on any poor fool who bumped shoulders with him. But even Kaz was not omniscient. The piercing gaze Wylan oft found pinned at his back might simply be Kaz’s way of judging the new recruit. That’s what he thought.

That’s what he thought.

“Meet Wylan Van Eck,” said Kaz fucking Brekker. Placid face, stoic eyes, mouth a thin line that gave nothing away. Shoulders set. Calm. Collected. And for a split second, his eyes darted to the side, straight directly at Wylan with a  _ look _ and flitted away again.

Kaz knew. The entire time. Probably wondered what the lost mercher kid was doing so far from his ivory manor and servants that could be summoned by the ring of a bell. Wylan’s face burned hot and red. Jesper looked at him coldly, right before turning away with a huff. There was ink on the back of Jesper’s neck.

Wylan couldn’t read it.

Wylan couldn’t read Kaz’ face either when he sought Kaz out at the bottom deck of the Ferolind, when he finally admitted his illiteracy. Kaz’s eyes shot fast like a bullet in the night, towards Wylan’s arm where his sleeve rode up ever so slightly. Wylan pulled the fabric down, hid his arm behind his back, fidgeted.

“So that’s why,” said Kaz, and he said nothing more.

“Is that why?” asked Jesper, days after that felt more like years. It still felt odd, looking into a mirror and seeing his own face look back, not Kuwei’s. Down to every detail, the length of his eyelashes, the curve of his brow.

_ I was paying attention. _

That felt like ages ago. An eternity ago. The two of them sat side by side, enjoying the brief moment of peace they’d get before following through Kaz’s plan. Before they’d wreak havoc on the Church of Barter, bring down Jan Van Eck and Pekka Rollins in one night, rescue Kuwei and call this job done and over with.

Wylan turned to look at Jesper’s face. Rather than answer, he pushed his sleeve up, showed the ink on his skin and the name he now knew belonged to the boy beside him, who traced every swirl and every loop and every tail with his eyes and fingers, barely a breath on Wylan’s skin.

“I could never read it, you know,” said Wylan. The words were heavy still, and they sat on his tongue for a moment longer, unwilling to be spoken into existence. But Jesper was safe. There were no words or fists to beat back the truth now settled between them. “But having someone read this for me felt… wrong somehow. Like I was handing something personal off to a stranger.”

It was answer enough for Jesper. “Couldn’t read mine either.” He turned around, pushed the collar of his shirt down, showed Wylan the sharp, angled writing on the back of his neck, where Jesper himself could never see. “Mom had to read it for me.”

It was funny, in a way, and they both chuckled at the irony. “Would you have done anything differently if you knew?” Jesper asked, tracing the name -his name- on Wylan’s skin.

“Would it matter? I didn’t fall in love with my soulmate. I fell in love with Jesper Fahey.”

“Jesper Llewellyn Fahey,” said Jesper, tracing each letter in time with his cadence.

Wylan closed his eyes and just listened. “Jesper Llewellyn Fahey.”

“Jesper Llewellyn Fahey.”


	4. Day 4: Angels & Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goro won’t ever get justice. Vengeance, though... Vengeance Goro could get.
> 
> “Don’t you want vengeance, Goro Akechi?” A hand shot out from the darkness. "I can offer you vengeance. All I ask is possession of your immortal soul."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this a long time ago, but I'm only posting it here now  
>   
> Thanks to @yusuke-of-valla on tumblr for giving me the prompt. Love you fam, hope I did this justice  
>   
> Challenge given by: [augustwritingchallenge2020](https://augustwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/621653119656493056/the-list-of-prompts-was-completed-one-prompt-per)  
> Read it on Tumblr: [HERE](https://landofsaltandshade.tumblr.com/post/633100962670706688/august-2020-angels-demons)  
> 

She was buried quietly, without fanfare and without mourners. Goro remembered staying at her grave hours after sunset, clutching the single flower he brought for her between his fingers so tightly it had crushed the leaves and petals and stem into a mangled mess.

The sky was a dark inky blot by the time a woman with tightly bunned hair and a blue and white striped uniform came for him and said that since his last living relative was six feet underground, Goro would be put into foster care. Dark clouds swirled over the horizon, flanking the boom of oncoming thunder. Goro wanted to tell her that he had a living relative still, a piece of trash masquerading as a man. Shido. Masayoshi Shido.

But who’d believe a dirty bastard child over the nation’s darling upstanding politician? The son of a whore with not a single yen to his name against a “respectable” and reliable Masayoshi fucking Shido. Even as a child, Goro understood that he won’t get his justice. This biased, pathetic excuse of a system won’t  _ ever _ give him his justice. He followed that woman into an orphanage and let the years pass being shuffled from place to place. No roots. No friends. No bonds. Just a pebble thrown into sea, meant to be swallowed and spat back out again.

Goro won’t get justice. Justice for the years he suffered unwanted, unneeded, and unloved. He won’t get justice for his mother whose only mistake was being too kind and loving something that deserved no love at all. Justice for the society that looked at his face and deemed him unworthy to be saved and left him to drown.

Goro won’t ever get justice.

“But I can give you vengeance.”

Vengeance.

That word, over and over again in his dreams, a promise, a vow, an  _ offer _ and an absolution. Goro didn’t know when it started, exactly. All he knew is that at some point in the blur of his adolescence, a voice started calling out to him in his dreams. Hands with black-painted nails, perfectly manicured, beckoning him into the depth of an endless void. Pointed horns and red eyes. A smile and the glint of shiny teeth. And in his mind, the voice would ring out, “Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance.”

Justice is for children. Wide-eyed children with petty idealism and a gross misunderstanding of how the world works, of how cruel the world is, of how unwanted and unneeded and un-special they were. Vengeance, though… Vengeance for his mother’s life ruined by the selfish ego of one man undeserving of every breath he deigned to steal, his cruelty, his blatant disregard for the one thing that Goro had in this sham of a life. Vengeance for Goro. Vengeance to quell the pit of hatred and despair and the thrashing of wild listlessness and chaos.

Vengeance, Goro could get.

“Don’t you want Vengeance, Goro Akechi?” asked the voice in his dreams. “Son of a whore and a bastard child. You are playing an unjust game in a world that will never deliver justice.” A hand shot out from the darkness. Pale skin. Dark nails. And past that, further in, gleaming eyes. Blood red. Inhuman. “I can offer you vengeance. I can offer you Masayoshi Shido’s head on a pike, his legacy tarnished, the vision of Japan he was willing to burn the world down for handed to you on a silver platter.”

And in his dreams, Goro always refused. Denied and rejected and lashed out with violent words and the hurl of his fists that only ever seemed to pass through smoke. Even in his dreams, he was taunted. Taunted with something he can never truly have.

That time though, that night, on the eighth anniversary of the day of his mother’s death, on the day Goro stood alone over her grave crushing a delicate flower in his murderous, loveless hands, the creature lurking in Goro’s head won.

In that dream, Goro had reached out back into the darkness, hands shaking as he hesitated mere inches from the flawless hand beckoning him into a mad abyss. “And you’d want something in return, I presume?”

There was almost a chuckle in response to that. “But of course,” said the creature. Horns flashed for a brief moment, sharp and black and angled forward. Flames seemed to lick up the creature’s smile. “All I ask is possession of your immortal soul, Goro Akechi. Give that to me upon your death, and you will have all that you want and more.”

A soul. A soul to finally see Shido fall. To see his pathetic excuse for a father finally get his just desserts. A soul to get the justice -the  _ vengeance _ \- for his mother, for himself. Goro leaned forward, let his bony half-starved hand grasp the one shrouded in darkness, and spoke:

“You have yourself a deal.”

Because really. His soul was dirty, broken, and worth less than the mud on his shirt.

If that’s what he had to give, then he’d give it. Gladly. A hundred, a thousand, a million times over.

The figure in the darkness of his dreams grasped his hand, grasped it tightly, too tightly, until it began to hurt but Goro held on. Then the hand shaked his, slowly, deliberately, and a burning searing pain followed. Not in Goro’s hand but further in, his chest, his head, his heart. His soul. It burned and burned and burned a searing pain, like something was peeling his skin away bit by agonising bit. Still Goro held on.

“Stubborn,” chuckled the voice in Goro’s dream. The hand receded, the pain faded, until all that Goro was left with was darkness and the piercing red eyes. “We will get along well, Goro Akechi.”

The eyes vanished and left behind an echo.

“You may call me Joker.”

Goro woke up.

He was not a child, not a teenager fraught with dreams of deals and vengeance and darkness. He was Goro Akechi, a respected detective fresh out of the academy, praise and accolades and connections to his name. Loved by the common folk for his humble beginnings, an orphan who had to work and bleed and sweat to claw his way into the upper echelons of society, a beacon of hope that maybe they too can make their way up the ladder. Loved by the elite for his charm and wit and charisma, his flawless manners, his cadence, his posture, his mask. One of his masks.

It took years. Years longer than what Goro would have wanted, years longer than what Goro could have been patient with, but at last, he could begin the endeavor that kept him going through years. Bring down Shido. More than a quick death. More than humiliation. More than anything Goro himself could have thought of.

The thing that Masayoshi Shido valued most. Himself. His reputation. His power. His legacy. His control. Brick by fucking brick, Goro would tear it all down. Watch the ruins burn in ashes. Have Shido’s name cursed for years, for generations, for future historians to come. Have the entirety of this nation sneer at the mere mention of his name.

All it took was a soul.

The best damn thing Goro’s soul could ever be worth, honestly.

“I can do many things, Goro, but even I can’t delay a dedicated media crew,” came a voice in his head. Familiar, after years of hearing it. Joker stood at the doorway, insouciant, relaxed, leaning against the frame of Goro’s bedroom door with that irritating nigh-permanent smirk on his face.

He looked human now, which was probably the most unsettling thing about him. No horns. No face wreathed in fire. No clawed hands, no tail, no wings. Joker’s red eyes were a very human black, framed with glasses that made him look innocent and harmless when he was anything but. “Out of bed Goro.” Really, the only thing that belied Joker’s true nature was his smile. The glint of canines just a bit too sharp to be human, visible for only a breath before vanishing once again into this perfect veneer. A mask. “The new Detective Prince can’t be late for his own interview, Goro. Out of bed.”

The pillows were soft, the mattress inviting, the window positioned just so to let the right amount of sunlight in. Ultimately simple, so that when reporters and paparazzi invaded what little semblance of privacy he had left, all they’d see was a humble man living a humble life. The image Goro wanted to cultivate, that Joker advised him to cultivate. The perfect mask.

With a heavy sigh, Goro dragged himself back to the realm of the conscious with a false smile, practised so often it reached his eyes, crinkled them at the edges and lit them up how a real smile would. It was terrifying how he didn’t even have to think about it, how it was as easy as breathing. “My interview isn’t until after noon.” Goro can’t quite remember the last time he smiled genuinely. It was terrifying that Goro didn’t care. And though sleep clung to him still, Goro sat straight-backed, knees slung over his bed and crossed at the ankle. An image. A mask.

Joker gave him a smile. Well, it wasn’t entirely a smile. There was joy in it, sure, and more than a little excitement, but Goro had never quite seen another human being give that look. One of hedonistic greed not for power or wealth but for thrill, chasing something that can’t be caught and loving every second anyway. A dangerous thing, an incorporeal thing, an emotion or an experience or just the mere imaginings of something too alien for Goro to grasp.

“It isn’t. But wouldn’t you want to witness the death of the IT President that eats from Shido’s hand like a loyal dog?”

But then again, Joker wasn’t human.

For all Goro knew, this look was how  _ creatures  _ like Joker smiled. If they could even smile. If Goro could even smile. His camera-ready expression slipped into something  _ other _ at the news. Lips stretched wide, teeth bared. It might have been a smile. It might have been him imitating the expression Joker’s face. It might have been simply Goro, delighted to know that the crumbling of Shido’s empire had already begun. Sadistic and feral and removed.

“I thought you said that Shido shouldn’t die,” said Goro conversationally, in the same tone one might discuss the weather. Despite how still and steady his voice was, he could not hide the excited tremor that ran through his body, the thrill of seeing his dream finally begin to take root and bloom into an ugly thorny rose.

If Joker noticed, he did not say. “True. I said Shido shouldn’t die. But I said nothing of the men working under him.” Goro was on his feet. Wordlessly, Joker handed him a simple summer outfit, a coat, his gloves. “The ultimate suffering for Shido is a life without power, without influence. A long life of being less than nothing. His subordinates though?”

“Weapons,” said Goro as he dressed himself. To be used against Shido. To have their lives be the sword and the bullets and the gun. To have their deaths be a wound.

For a split second, Goro could have sworn that flames erupted in Joker’s eyes. But when he blinked, it was gone, and Joker was laughing.“Right you are, Goro. They’re casualties in the war. Trash. Tools that have outlived their usefulness.” Joker led Goro out the bedroom, into the hall. Handed him a cup of coffee and a sandwich. “A threat to Shido perhaps?” Joker paused his stride just long enough to look into Goro’s eyes. “Maybe our IT President found something about Shido that he shouldn’t have.” They did not stop in the dining room for Goro’s breakfast.

“Did he?”

“Does it matter?” Joker asked.

“It doesn’t.”

Joker chuckled. The hallway light flickered with each breath and the shadows curled at his ankle. “We’ll create a story, Goro. The president dies from some… unseen force and you’re simply the good samaritan who wanted to help. You’ll get closer to the public, you get an in with Shido, and you get to watch the fall from  _ inside _ the ivory tower.”

Goro took a sip of his coffee. Roasted to perfection. “And you will get my soul.”

They passed by the floor mirror in the living room. Joker’s reflection was not that of a man with fluffy black hair and a dark button-up. It was shadow and flame and a creature with horns and black-clawed hands. “And I will get your soul. But only  _ after _ you watch Shido get dragged through something worse than hell. Such is the terms of our deal.”

All for the price of Goro’s soul.

“Well,” Goro smiled, sharp and fake and utterly convincing, “I suppose I’ll take my morning walk. I have an interview coming up, after all. I should clear my head.”

Joker laughed. Deep, hungry, triumphant. He vanished into black smoke and receded into the dark corners of the house just as Goro opened the door. He wasn’t gone though, not really. There was a fire in Goro’s chest, painful and freeing and damning all at once. A brand of malediction and a stain on the soul he already sold.

And when Goro saw a brown-haired man in nice clothes with a laptop bag slung over his shoulder suddenly collapse in the middle of the street, grasping his throat for invisible hands that slowly strangled life out, he heard Joker’s voice in his head again. Loud, clear, and malicious.

Vengeance.

Vengeance.

Vengeance.

Goro dropped his coffee and his breakfast and rushed forward, putting on a mask that fit far too well on his face. “Are you alright sir!?”

**Vengeance.**


	5. Day 5: Post-Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve gotta be fucking KIDDING me!” Battered and dirty and broken as it is, Max recognised this sign. Camp Camp looked much smaller now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this a long time ago, but I'm only posting it here now  
>   
>   
> Challenge given by: [augustwritingchallenge2020](https://augustwritingchallenge.tumblr.com/post/621653119656493056/the-list-of-prompts-was-completed-one-prompt-per)  
> Reblog it on Tumblr: [HERE](https://landofsaltandshade.tumblr.com/post/633102361531924480/august-2020-post-apocalypse-au)  
> 

“You’ve gotta be fucking KIDDING me!” It’s a bad idea, but literally fucking  _ everything _ is a bad idea in this zombie shitstorm. Who gives a cunt’s hair if Max lets out a scream filled with the rage-frustration-disbelief-rage that had been building up more and more and more? “There’s fucking something laughing at me,” he declared. A god, a demon, a heartless wretch dictating what his life would be behind a silver screen but  _ something _ out there just wanted him to suffer for as long as possible in the worst fucking way.

The stupid banner under it has torn, the letters had faded even more, and one of the posts holding the sign up had been knocked down, but the stupid fucking thing stubbornly held itself aloft using a nearby overgrown tree branch like a crutch. Battered and dirty and broken as it was, Max recognised this sign. And, as he looked around him, he began to recognise these woods.

Camp Camp looked much smaller now. Max could touch the sign if he reached up for it on his tiptoes. Trace the letters that he spat at in his youth, follow the winding path deeper in with his eyes and if he looked real hard, deep past the overgrowth of leaves and branches, he could almost make out the flag in front of the mess hall peeking out, the one that David always saluted whenever he chanced a glance up like a fucking moron.

Starving, exhausted, and with blisters on his feet from running so damn much, Max can’t fucking believe that luck or fate or whatever the fuck brought him back here. A sharp whine, cut through the air behind him. Without even thinking, Max picked up his baseball bat and swung blind towards the noise.

There was a crack and a snap and just a little bit of that disgusting squelch when wet flesh slaps against the ground. Max heard it way too often these days. The bat cleaved through a runner’s forearm, sending it flying off into the great beyond as the zombie fell back, tumbling head over ass a few feet back. It didn’t stay down, runners never do, and the bitch got back up, scuttling on all fours (threes now, since it just lost an arm) like a shitty human-dog hybrid and lunged.

Max swung again and took the head clean off.

The fucker screamed too before it died. Like screaming was just the national past time in the middle of the apocalypse. Like it just  _ had _ to let its zombie friends know that “hey, there’s a human here that hasn’t been bitten yet bon ape-fucking-tit.”

Bastard.

There’s a matching scream in the distance, in the direction where Max ran from. First one. Then two, then three. Then there was a chorus as the fucking things communicated. They were coming. Fucking zombies, travelling around in packs and shit like blonde rich girls with pumpkin spice lattes taking up the entire walkway when they traipse down the fucking mall at the pace of a crippled tortoise. Bitch. “I’m not dying in front of this shitty fucking camp…” Max grumbled. He wiped his bat (stolen off a wannabe jock getting his arm bit from highschool a couple of weeks ago) on the zombie runner’s tattered jeans. It helped a bit. There was still gunk and gore and what Max was sure was a tooth embedded in it, but he had no time.

He held it by the middle and ran away from the incoming horde, deeper into the woods. Towards camp. The bus dropped kids off here, and then David would come vomit sunshine all over them and escort them to the camp proper for the grand tour of Campbell’s poor excuse of a money-making scheme. The trail was overrun with grass, path barely visible at all as the trees stretched their gnarled branches out like grasping hands and shadowed everything with a thick canopy of leaves. Didn’t matter though. It’s been years since Max had been in this shitty camp, but he didn’t need to see the trail to know where the camp was.

That upturned rock that kinda looks like a butt was still there. Had to turn slightly to the left until he sees the tree with the sexy Marilyn Monroe pose where had to turn right in a 90 degree angle until he reached the mess hall. Max’s feet moved on instinct and habit, following a path that he’d known seemingly his entire childhood. Happens when your parents punt you out of the car like unwanted luggage and you have to stay in one place year after year after year til they don’t pick you up one summer and you had to be dragged away by some bitch in a uniform and a smile so plastic they could market her off as a hyper-realistic barbie doll.

Muscle memory took Max in front of the mess hall. There was still a redundantly painted ‘Mess Hall’ over the door, though a little faded now. The flag pole still stood; held together with tape and rope and sheer fucking spite. And even though the last time Max had called David ended with his screams and Gwen’s terrified voice panic-yelling that a zombie had made it into their house, he couldn’t help but think that no one else but David could have done this. He was the only son of a bitch dumb enough to ever come back to Camp Campbell in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. That he and Gwen were safe.

_ I wonder what happened to him? _

Max didn’t spend that long standing outside and gawking at the pole like an idiot. No, he was going to be smart about this. He knew that there was an attic in the mess hall where Cameron Campbell kept his shit, and another attic in the pantry behind the kitchen where Neil wrote in his diary and kept biscuits and juice and who knows what else. If he was lucky, there’d be something for him to eat while he waits for the horde to investigate this sham of a summer camp like Agents Millner used to do. Hopefully they’d be just as shitty at it.

He’d be quiet and patient. A thing he used to be shit at, but funny how good he turned out at them when being both of those things meant continuing to live another day of this shitty life.

Max pushed open the door. It creaked a little, but it was unlocked and he could get in.

He didn’t know why he did it, but just before he slipped inside the mess hall and barricaded the door, Max threw the Camp Camp salute at the flag, back straight, arm out, fingers curled as he tilted his head up ever so slightly.

Just like David used to do.


End file.
